Chapter 1218: Famine-Disaster Grand Formation

Chapter 1217: Famine-Disaster Grand Formation

The Great Catastrophe of the Great Wilderness had, in truth, already arrived. Yet even so, the situation before them was far more severe than Mo Hua had anticipated.

In his plans, such a scene should not have appeared now.

What lay before his eyes—this desolation—should have happened ten years later, five years later, at the very least two or three years later.

But now, time was not yet ripe, the web of cause and effect had not matured, and yet this calamity suddenly descended before Mo Hua’s eyes.

It was as if someone had pressed a hand upon the wheel of fate, fast-forwarding it.

Mo Hua stood momentarily dazed.

Not only him—even Lu-Gu, Iron Shugu, Dan-Zhu, Chi Feng, Elders Ba-Shan and Ba-Chuan—all of them were equally stunned by the sight.

“How could it become like this? Is this truly the Third-Grade Mountain Realm where the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe resides?” Ba-Shan muttered in disbelief. “Did we come to the wrong place? How could it be so…?”

Desolate and lifeless, it was like the dead land of the end times.

“What about the Great Chieftain and the others?” Elder Ba-Chuan’s face changed. “Our clansmen… could they—?”

A shadow of dread covered everyone’s hearts.

Dan-Zhu’s gaze carried deep worry as he looked at Mo Hua. “Mister Wu, I want to return to the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe at once to see for myself—”

Mo Hua pondered a moment, then nodded.

At present, the Vermilion Bird Mountain Realm lay in ruin. They had no idea what the true situation was.

It was best to first find the main tribe, meet the Great Chieftain, and then discuss the next steps.

For now, the scale of the disaster was overwhelming. In this situation, it was no longer a matter of “attacking” or “not attacking” other tribes, or of occupying territory.

The question was whether they could survive in the Third-Grade State Realm with these barbarian troops at all.

First, survive—then consider the rest.

But Lu-Gu shook his head. “No.”

Mo Hua turned to him.

Lu-Gu sneered. “If we go to the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe’s main base, how can we still find a place for ourselves?”

He had been forced by circumstances to ally with Dan-Zhu, the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe’s young master.

But the Shugu Tribe and the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe had never been on good terms.

If he brought his Shugu warriors to the Vermilion Sparrow main base, wouldn’t it be the same as surrendering to their Great Chieftain?

That would be outright “betrayal of the tribe.”

Mo Hua understood his thoughts and said, “This is an alliance, not submission.”

Lu-Gu still sneered.

Only when status and power were equal could one speak of alliance.

A Shugu general and the Vermilion Sparrow’s young master—perhaps that could barely be called “alliance.”

A Shugu Great Chieftain and the Vermilion Sparrow’s Great Chieftain—yes, that too could be considered alliance.

But for him, a mere Shugu general, to deal directly with the Vermilion Sparrow’s Great Chieftain—how could that be alliance?

What’s more, if a general of the tribe secretly communicated with another tribe’s Great Chieftain, it was a grave taboo.

The Shugu Great Chieftain would surely believe he harbored sinister intent, even ambitions to usurp power, and would never listen to an explanation.

Mo Hua thought for a moment, then shifted his words:

“Then call it an ‘escort.’ You are escorting Young Master Dan-Zhu back to the Vermilion Sparrow base. Once there, if you don’t wish to entangle with the Great Chieftain, you can part ways freely.”

Lu-Gu said coldly, “I, a dignified Shugu general, would ‘escort’ the Vermilion Sparrow Tribes’s young master?”

Mo Hua raised two fingers. “Two sets of Abyssal-Bone Heavy Armor, as escort payment.”

Lu-Gu fell silent.

He wanted to name a price, but then he remembered this demon’s strange “quirk”:

This demon only liked “one price, fixed.”

He did not like bargaining.

If Lu-Gu tried to haggle, not only would Mo Hua not yield, he might even lower the price further.

But two suits… Lu-Gu’s gaze remained cautious, and he said nothing.

Mo Hua’s eyes narrowed slightly. He added, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The Vermilion Bird Mountain is no longer what it once was. Your Shugu tribe alone may not even survive. You may not even know how you die.”

“You escort us—and we escort you.”

Lu-Gu inwardly scoffed, but after some thought, reluctantly nodded.

“Fine.”

Two ancestral suits of heavy armor were no small matter.

Besides, his Shugu main force had nowhere else to go for now. Traveling together with Dan-Zhu’s group, getting familiar with the situation, was not a bad idea.

And as Iron Shugu had said, this so-called “Mister Wu” might indeed be the Shugu Tribe’s great enemy. He could not just leave it unchecked.

At this thought, Lu-Gu silently cast another glance at Mo Hua.

But before his gaze could linger, a tall figure stepped in front—Chi Feng, shielding Mo Hua from his sight.

Lu-Gu’s eyes turned cold, but he understood.

They were guarding against him.

Now that they were in the Third-Grade Mountain Realm, as a late Golden Core general, no longer bound by heavenly restrictions, he could fully wield his magic treasures and spiritual power.

Naturally, the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe regarded him as a “great enemy,” guarding against him at every step.

Guarding against him suddenly striking to kill Dan-Zhu, and fearing he might assassinate their Lord Shaman.

And deep inside, Lu-Gu indeed harbored murderous thoughts.

The moment they left Wusha Mountain Realm, he had considered—should he make a move? Should he try killing that delicate, fair-skinned youth called “Mister Wu”?

This thought had come to him more than once.

But every time, Chi Feng had blocked him.

That Chi Feng—just like now—his aura taut, eyes fixed, standing as an immovable wall.

Like a “loyal hound,” he guarded that “Mister Wu,” as though fearing the Shugu general would suddenly lash out.

Chi Feng was mid Golden Core, while Lu-Gu was late Golden Core.

In direct combat, Lu-Gu could certainly overpower him.

But Chi Feng was also a barbarian general of the Vermilion Sparrow, a warrior tempered in countless battles, his aura hard as iron, his body forged like bronze—an extremely tough opponent.

Even to win, he would need hundreds of rounds.

To kill him? Even harder.

And to bypass this “iron wall” and directly slay the young Shaman—all the more difficult.

What’s more, Lu-Gu had not forgotten: that so-called youth Shaman might well be a venomous demon wrapped in the harmless skin of a boy.

If his mask were torn away before everyone’s eyes, what might happen? None could tell.

Thus, caution was necessary.

He would need the right opportunity.

Gradually, Lu-Gu pressed down his killing intent, shifted his gaze away, pretending to value peace, showing no ill will.

Chi Feng’s expression remained stern. He said nothing—but drew even closer to protect Mo Hua.

Dan-Zhu was the hope of the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe.

And Lord Shaman was the hope of Dan-Zhu.

There could be no mistake.

After weighing their options, the group set out, heading toward Vermilion Sparrow Mountain, where the tribe’s main base lay.

Mo Hua led the way.

Of all of them, he alone understood the spread of the famine-disaster.

Though the barren land, the withered plants, were visible to all—the “surface” of famine—At a deeper level, the famine carried a devouring power, a hidden aura like a law itself, invisible to mortal eyes.

Unable to see it, one could easily inhale it, swallow it into the belly, even into the mind.

Once the Taotie power entered the mind, a person would turn into a creature that ate everything—soil, plants, flesh.

On the road, Mo Hua had already seen many such examples.

They were like “zombies,” wandering through the famine’s reach, gnawing rotten flesh.

When flesh was gone, they chewed dead trees or lay on the ground to eat dirt—no longer human.

And those were the ones still moving.

Far more barbarian cultivators perished in the famine, their flesh gnawed away, bodies dried up, like “mummies.”

Such dried corpses littered the land. Every few li, another heap.

They lay upon the ground, decaying with the earth, like rotting weeds, like countless marks carved into the land—Like “array patterns” of disaster and death.

Mo Hua’s pupils contracted.

They walked on like this for nearly a hundred li through the famine-stricken wasteland. Still, all they saw was ruin, the land filled with “dry corpses.”

Everyone felt a chill deep in their hearts.

Even the shugu barbarian soldiers, fierce as they were, showed traces of fear.

They loved bloodshed, and had even “eaten” men before, but they could not adapt to this kind of utter extinction-like dead silence, nor the eerie mummified corpses everywhere.

Just as Mo Hua was about to conclude that this stretch of the Great Wilderness had truly become a “land of the dead,” he finally spotted some living people.

In an extremely remote, almost sealed-off valley, a small tribe had survived.

And they were the only barbarian tribe within a hundred li to have survived.

The chief of this small tribe was only at the mid Foundation Establishment stage. When he saw the mighty Lu-Gu, the imposing Chi Feng, the heroic Dan-Zhu, and Mo Hua with his divine and handsome bearing, along with the vast army of six thousand barbarian soldiers, it was as though he had witnessed the descent of heavenly “kingly troops.” He hurriedly kowtowed, saying:

“This old man greets the honored lords—may the lords be at peace.”

Lu-Gu asked him: “Where is this place? What tribe are you?”

The chief replied truthfully: “This is a small mountain branching off Vermilion Bird Mountain, named Little Shaman Mountain. Our tribe is called the Wutian Tribe. We have lived for generations by farming, very poor, with no wealth to speak of, and our clansmen are all—”

Lu-Gu frowned. “No need for useless words.”

The Wutian chief nodded repeatedly. “Yes, yes—”

“I ask you,” Lu-Gu said in a deep voice, “within a hundred li, all the people are dead. Why has your tribe survived?”

The Wutian chief replied: “This… this old man is not sure. It must be that Divine-Lord has shown us favor, so we have been fortunate enough to survive.”

These words were clearly a lie.

Lu-Gu’s gaze turned cold, and the overwhelming pressure of a late Golden Core cultivator burst forth.

The chief was terrified, kneeling and trembling, filled with dread.

Mo Hua then spoke: “Lord Lu-Gu.”

Lu-Gu glanced at Mo Hua, said nothing, but still restrained his aura.

Only then did the Wutian chief feel some relief.

Mo Hua slowly said: “Tell the truth… how did you survive? We will not make things hard for you.”

The Wutian chief looked up and saw Mo Hua’s gentle and compassionate gaze, his fair and translucent features like those of a celestial being. Though he did not know Mo Hua’s identity, just a glance made him feel as if his very soul had been redeemed.

“Yes, yes—” the chief nodded repeatedly, but then grew troubled. “Honored one, this old man truly spoke no falsehood. Our Wutian Tribe is both poor and bitter, dwelling secluded in this valley for generations, living only by planting a little millet. We do not go out, nor do we dare let outsiders in.

“Who knew when the outside world suddenly changed? Everyone starved to death, and we did not dare go out either. We merely clung to life here.”

Looking into the chief’s aged and fearful eyes, Mo Hua confirmed he was indeed not lying, and nodded.

“I understand. Rest assured—we will not kill you.”

The Wutian chief let out a deep sigh of relief, kowtowing: “Many thanks, honored lords.”

“Go,” Mo Hua said.

The chief left as though pardoned, replying: “Yes.”

After he departed, Mo Hua had the army camp outside the valley to rest and recover.

But he set down a rule: they were not to harm or oppress the small tribe.

Dan-Zhu and the others nodded in agreement. They had gradually grown accustomed to this “not disturbing a hair” approach.

But Lu-Gu and the Shugu Tribe under him were displeased.

A trivial little tribe—just wipe them out with a wave of the hand, seize whatever was useful, burn the rest. Why bother with false courtesy?

Yet since they were allies, and Mo Hua the Shaman was clearly the one in charge, they could not defy his words.

Once things were settled, Mo Hua, under Chi Feng’s protection, ascended the cliff at the highest point of the valley to observe the spread of the famine.

The view was the best here; one could see very far.

Mo Hua’s gaze was deep as he silently observed everything. His divine sense was being consumed, his calculating power running at full force.

Chi Feng stood silently guard at his side, not daring to disturb him.

After an unknown length of time, Mo Hua’s divine sense grew faintly overdrawn, and only then did he stop his deductions.

At the same time, he took a deep breath, a trace of helpless bitterness on his face.

He understood now why this little place had not been devoured by the famine and had survived.

First, because the Wutian Tribe lived by farming.

In the Great Wilderness, the soil was dry and barren, unable to grow much.

Any place where millet could be planted meant that a relatively dense “earthly aura” had gathered there.

In such places where earthly aura was strong, the famine’s spread could naturally be restrained to some degree.

Second, the spread of the famine followed a “pattern.”

Previously Mo Hua thought the famine spread “chaotically,” diffusing aimlessly wherever it reached.

Now, having entered the third-tier Vermilion Bird Mountain Realm, and combined with his prior research into the power of the Taotie, he gradually realized—The spread of famine was not “chaotic.”

If the Great Wilderness famine was truly caused by some formation infused with the Taotie’s laws—Then the famine’s spread likely followed the rules of that formation.

It was expanding according to the formation’s trajectory.

The very essence of its spread was to “draw” an array upon the land of the Great Wilderness.

The process of its spread was the very process of this Taotie Formation of Calamity—symbolizing “disaster”—being continually “generated.”

This was truly a colossal formation that used the very “earth” itself as its medium.

Not something as simple as “drawing an array upon the ground.”

And the scale of this formation was likely beyond imagination.

Mo Hua let out a sigh, his mood somewhat heavy:

“The Famine Disaster Formation…”

At dawn the next day, Mo Hua had everyone set off on their journey.

He understood well in his heart that the situation was already slipping beyond control. He had to regroup with the main Vermilion Sparrow Tribe as quickly as possible, then gather everyone’s strength to replan the next step.

Before entering the Vermilion Bird Mountain Realm, Mo Hua had assumed that under the famine’s shadow, wars would rage ceaselessly, and tribal conflicts would intensify.

By all logic, the current state of the Vermilion Bird Mountain Realm should have been a “tribal struggle for supremacy” scenario.

But in reality, it was nothing like that.

Now, never mind “struggling for supremacy”—finding a way for everyone to simply “stay alive” was already as difficult as reaching the heavens.

This was…the Famine Disaster Formation…

Moreover, it was a grand formation infused with the “power of the Taotie.”

Mo Hua’s heart grew incomparably heavy.

Once this formation was completed, its terrifying nature might truly defy imagination.

For now, this Famine Disaster Formation had not yet been fully formed. Otherwise, the situation in the Great Wilderness would never be what it was now.

Its severity would have been a hundredfold, a thousandfold worse.

And who could possibly have the ability to construct such a formation…

Mo Hua’s thoughts instinctively drifted to a single person.

A pitch-black, blurry, eerie human silhouette slowly surfaced in his mind.

Mo Hua let out a deep sigh.

“As expected…from beginning to end, it has always been Martial Uncle…”

(End of this Chapter)